


His Best Something

by thewhitestag



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), DCU - Comicverse
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewhitestag/pseuds/thewhitestag
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's just Dick, Damian, and the belt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Best Something

They fuck a lot on rooftops. They fuck in plenty of other places too, including but not limited to: office chairs, lounge chairs, bars, public libraries, the Batmobile, Louis XVI dining chairs, and one time against the control panel in the cockpit of a crashing blimp. But if one were to devise a chart—and Dick imagines that this is something that Damian would do, if only mentally—city rooftops make a disproportionately large slice of the pie.

Damian never asks about it. No, he wouldn’t; he thinks Dick talks too much as it is, and makes that opinion known at every possible opportunity. But Damian’s not one to simply dismiss a pattern, regardless of what he says. Surely he’s speculated. Wondered. At least, Dick imagines so.

Tonight’s chosen spot is a familiar one. Thirty-six stories high on top of the Grand Palace Hotel, concealed behind the elaborately molded cornice. On the ledge, a giant golden Apollo strums his lyre, lit up by floodlights and casting enough shadow behind him for furtive meetings. The statue is close enough that Dick can reach out and trace the sandal straps criss-crossing the god’s ankles.

The air up here is never exactly pleasant, thanks to the steady waft of chemical smoke. This part of downtown is miles away from the industrial district, but the autumn wind is strong and the factory smokestacks are always working overtime. Tonight, there’s a particularly noxious prickle in the nostrils, warning of acid rain.

The feel of Damian’s lips is scratchy. They must be chapped and wind-bitten from all the swinging of patrol. Meanwhile, Dick recounts his morning. Burned the coffee. Found an old expired carton in the fridge—milk looked like cottage cheese. He yelps when Damian pinches his stomach, warning him to shut up about breakfast and focus.

Dick’s uniform has already been unzipped, peeled back, and he pulls his brother closer into his lap. Damian bites along his shoulder, his neck, in the way that he does. Not hard enough to draw blood, barely leaving an imprint on the skin. Soft, experimental nips, as if he needs to make certain that the flesh between his teeth is solid. His movements are more systematic than passionate at times, face strangely earnest in its curiosity.

The faint wetness left by Damian’s mouth grows cool in the night air, and the altitude magnifies the chill. Dick tilts his head back to greet the sky. The stars are almost always muddied out by smog and light pollution in this city, but from up here, they still feel closer. At least he can see the moon.

It goes without saying that an acrobat such as himself likes high places. He takes comfort in vertigo. And besides that, Dick can’t deny the rush of post-patrol adrenaline that always jumpstarts his pulse. But he has other reasons to constantly brave the chimney stacks and pigeon shit.

He tugs gently on Damian’s belt, curling his grip around the strap. Ponders it between his fingertips, feeling the texture of the material. Reaffirming the familiar weight and tension of the accessory. “I like your belt,” he decides to say.

Damian tuts.

“Getting nostalgic?” But his mocking tone is belied by his expression. “If you want to play Boy Wonder again, I can bring the scaly panties.”

Dick smirks at the barb in good humor, but he won’t be diverted. “I made this for you,” he continues. He traces over each pouch with his eyes, seeing through them to their contents, and past that to the wires and to the chips sewn into the lining. “Nobody knows it like I do.”

Damian peers at him cautiously, arms twined over his shoulders.

There are many things Dick Grayson is not. He is not the world’s best fighter; not the strongest, or the quickest, or even the funniest, though he tries. For a long time, that had always been fine with him. Loving the limelight, after all, didn’t mean he was ever selfish for it.

Then Damian arrived.

It had been a disaster at first. The two clashed in their own violent ways, misunderstanding one another—sometimes willfully refusing to understand. Petty arguments and shouting matches. Badly-timed jokes and pent-in worries. Even simple compliments were met with suspicion. Through the course of their partnership, the friction between them never fully disappeared, but Dick learned eventually. Attempting to handle Damian would always be a failed venture; and so he finally tried simply being with him.

Now it’s years later and Dick is still winging it. Coexisting without strategy—but not without direction. This belt, this composite of leather and brass and silicone, it’s with a strange reverence that Dick lays his hands on it. It’s a powerful reminder. Damian is what Dick is good at.

He’s still not the world’s best anything; not the best mentor, or the best brother, or the best partner, though he tries. But here’s a place where he can be Damian’s best something.

He presses a knuckle to the bottom of the third pouch on the left, disrupting the circuit that controls the first alarm. Slides around the back to deactivate the taser as well—has to be careful not to hit any of the dummy triggers—then to the sides of Damian’s waist. Needs to use both hands for this part, thumbs pressing paired points on the inside of the strap, disengaging the second alarm and the electric lock. The buckle yields like a sighing mouth; Dick unfastens it, and slides the entire belt away. Hooks fingers into Damian’s waistband and slides that down, too.

The entire maneuver takes him less than two seconds.

No unnecessary flourishes to his actions. This demonstration doesn’t need showiness. Just the sediments of memory and habit, layered deep into his muscles and bones. This is what he has. This is what the Gotham skyline gives him—precious moments stolen between the thrum of night patrol, moments where they are alone, Dick and Damian and the belt. Because no one else will ever strip this Robin to the skin with the same familiarity, with this same certainty.

Damian’s lips are parted in surprise, gaze fixed on the belt swinging from Dick’s grasp; he’d never realized. His mind had always been half-drunk with urgency when Dick undressed him. He’d never realized. Dick’s heart slips into a place next to pride and possessiveness, squeezing jealously between them.

He swallows.

“I’m the only one who can do that, aren’t I?”

His question comes too damn unsteady to pretend it’s bravado. And Damian’s too smart. Behind his eyes, synapses fire. Connections weave into consciousness. Facts rush in to resolve the question why. And he comes to understanding.

They fuck a lot on rooftops.

Back on the ground, sirens wail down 6th street; a news chopper whizzes past the hotel, following after the high-speed chase. The wind whips in the helicopter’s wake, tousling Dick’s hair into his eyes.

Hesitation stretches.

“I didn’t ask,” Damian finally says, after a long moment. He’s hard. Dick’s barely touched him, but with his leggings pulled down to his knees, his arousal is plain to see.

“No,” Dick answers. He slides his fingers along his brother’s inner thighs. Pleading guilty to the unvoiced accusation. “You didn’t.”

Damian kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this as a birthday fic for one of my favorite people on tumblr, [monkeyscandance](http://monkeyscandance.tumblr.com/).


End file.
